


little deaths

by sharkie



Series: the filth city [1]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Aphrodisiacs, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 09:31:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14713529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkie/pseuds/sharkie
Summary: Feducci needs a hand. So to speak.





	little deaths

**Author's Note:**

> **Minor warning** : I tried to avoid making this dub-conny, but it's kinda derived from the sex pollen trope, so proceed with caution if that bothers you.

The courier had hurtled towards you as if the wind had gained sentience and begun hunting them. From what you’d gathered between their pants, Feducci needs you. Urgently. What an annoying message, you think, weaving through the crooked streets. _Feducci needs you._ Your lips move in a mocking soundless echo. One would assume that thrusting pointy objects deep into each other’s willing bodies on a fortnightly basis would serve as a prelude to greater intimacy, but no, _evidently_ you must do more thunderous legwork than that poor courier.

Your internal tirade fades to a whisper when confronted by unsettling quietness. According to the groundskeeper, Feducci hasn’t left his quarters for hours. You receive clarification that ‘quarters’ is synonymous with ‘chambers’ and not a state of dismemberment, and follow the directions to his bedroom.

Feducci is seemingly intact, seated behind a desk - which, for him, is a curiously inert position. Upon closer inspection, the bandages wrapped around his head hang in slight disarray, as do those around his arms and neck. You try not to gape at this rare glimpse of his eyes. He waves off your tentative greeting and rocks forward on both hands.

“I have bad news, good news, and...news,” he says.

He shifts his weight from one thigh to the other. All right. What is it? “The bad news is that someone tried to poison me. They succeeded in tricking me into consuming a substantial dose from my own stock. It courses through my veins at this very moment.” He holds up a hand to stem your alarm. “The good news is that, due to their unfamiliarity with...exotic flora, they chose something non-lethal. It may not exactly be poisonous, depending on one's definition.”

And? What does he require? Revenge? Leverage? A good punch to the stomach?

Feducci clears his throat. “It was an aphrodisiac. A highly potent aphrodisiac.”

He stumbles _around_ the desk instead of vaulting over it, and catches your wrist before you have the chance to react beyond opening your mouth. “I wouldn't have summoned you if I didn't feel that you could be trusted, better than the others in this regard.” There's a manic glaze setting over his eyes. You couldn't look away if you tried - which is just as well, since your gaze may automatically drift downwards. “My attempts have proven futile. I cannot possibly keep this up! I mean, something is staying up, against my wishes. You understand.” He shuffles in place; the image of a penguin regrettably springs to mind. “You're free to leave, of course. But as much as I enjoy the thought of - the thought of multiple hands upon me, I wish to keep this a secret.”

You pull your hand free, shivering despite yourself when he whines at the loss. Why does he even _have_ that not-poison? He catches his breath and answers, “Recreational usage. I usually take care of this myself, but...” _Usually?_ Has this happened before? “Well, yes.” Why does he need _your_ help this time, then?

He huffs. You think, judging by the movement of the bandages around his mouth. “If you must know, it’s gotten - _boring._ Inefficient. It’s like training for jousting alone! There’s only so much riding and thrusting I can do in private without getting the urge to skewer something supple.”

When he puts it that way, how can you refuse?

Wordlessly, you lead Feducci to the foot of the bed, where he sways as if intoxicated. You’d prefer to believe it’s due to your presence; more likely, it’s the drug. As you help him undress, he says that there are restraints in the drawer of his bedside table: four manacles lined with fabric, plus cloth suitable for binding any other troublesome body parts. His voice grows more strained by the syllable.

The way you see it (and you keep looking, and wish you could do so from every conceivable angle), you have two options. You could bring him to crisis as many times as possible, relieving some of his agony with each release, at the risk of exhausting him before the substance has run its course. Or you could allow the tension to build - preventing crisis for as long as possible - until he can no longer bear denial and expels all at once, at the risk of him rapidly losing his mind, to the extent that one can lose something which they only tenuously possess.

“The first,” Feducci gasps, fumbling with his trousers. You pull them down yourself when his hands shake too much to finish the job. His drawers are already near-fully unlaced. Defying your expectations, there are no bandages around his cock and balls. He rests his forehead against your shoulder, panting. “The pressure was unbearable,” he explains.  

You can’t imagine the discomfort that could elicit such a reaction from a seasoned duellist who's surely paid many a trip to the Boatman. Besides its distressed engorgement, Feducci possesses a perfectly ordinary set of tackle. Almost suspiciously so. A prolonged groan interrupts your inspection - you’ve forgotten that your gaze is inadequate substitute for touch, no matter how heated and heavy.  

He sprawls on the mattress with a dramatic sigh. You press his bucking hips down and lower your head. Initially, you plan to slide your mouth from the tip of his cock to the root, smooth as a sword into its scabbard. The attempt is rather spoiled by how you struggle to fit it in a single go and dribble over him with an undignified wheeze; you lick off a big glob of saliva, and he drips copiously in response. Ah. That worked out well. Your tongue flicks against the underside of his cock before your lips seal over the head. Hollowing your cheeks, you _suck,_ a wet squelch in a room otherwise silent save for laboured breathing.

One, two, less than ten thrusts in a sloppy staccato rhythm. He growls the beginning of a warning and spends, powerful but less than a mouthful, surprisingly pleasant, and you swirl your tongue over the slit of his twitching prick. If only you could taste more. It's a dizzying, sickening, marvellous sensation when you realise that that's precisely what you must do.

Or not. Three brief orgasms later, Feducci sprawls on the bed, writhing harder under some invisible force, one fist clenched in his quilt and the other a blur over his weeping cockstand. You continue massaging your cramped wrist and consider that you may be forced to conclude that this isn't working.

Wearily, he lifts his head, desperation shining in his dark eyes.

“Please,” he croaks.

You retrieve the restraints and affix them to his wrists while he moans, then move on to his feet. His free leg involuntarily kicks out when you snatch his hand away from his cock - fortunately, you’ve honed your reflexes with the Black Ribbon, and you grab his ankle mid-air, lowering it forcefully and securing it to the bedpost. You d_mn near topple over when he moans longer at _that._    

As for the cloth? You wind it around his head, covering his eyes. Feducci gasps and instinctively tugs at the restraints before grunting and letting his head drop back onto the pillow. Perhaps a gag would be prudent, but he moans your name, and you hesitate. Maybe you require something, as well. Incentive. To help you help him, and all that.

You question if he'd be comfortable with screaming loud enough to wake the...yes.

He laughs weakly. “My servants will think that you're murdering me. They won't interfere.”

Earlier, you spotted lubricant in the drawer. You divest yourself of your drawers and proceed to prepare yourself noisily. You must wonder, aloud - if his hands were free, would he do the job? Would he hold your flailing legs apart, lick you open, and insert those cloth-covered fingers and frig you till you wailed for his prick? The answers come in the form of half-coherent threats and what you suspect are pleas.

He pants like a dog as you sink onto him, the sound conveniently concealing the soft gasp that escapes your lips as you adjust to the stretch. It’s certainly a more interesting sensation than riding a velocipede over uneven cobblestones. You set a languid, steady pace up and down his cockstand, a hand lowered to tend to yourself when sheer desire threatens to imbalance you. You pause whenever his thighs tremble from impending crisis. He can do nothing to hide it. It’s far from glamorous, nor does it make you feel particularly masterful, but you’re not aiming for finesse. Seconds meld into minutes, punctuated with harsh breaths and harsher curses uttered amidst gasps.  

The first time you come, it takes all of your willpower to wrench yourself off his cock and finish against your palm. You tell him so. You explain that you’d rather reach completion convulsing around his fullness. In fact, once you’ve caught your breath, you entertain the idea by sinking back onto him and bouncing for exactly as long as it takes for another telltale quiver of crisis to stir in your loins. Again, you pull away at the last second, leaving him groaning while you mewl and sigh and rattle the mattress in exaggerated rapture.

Then you sit by his side, your palm hovering over his straining prick before settling over his hip. You don't ask him to beg. You needn't.

Feducci boasts a reputation for hastiness in the idlest of tasks on the slowest of days - now he’s frenzied beneath your fingertips drawing nonsense patterns across his stomach, inarticulately growling his delirium, the increasingly pained result of lust wounded into bloodlust. He jerks when you use both hands to smooth the bandages closest to his cock, dampened with sweat and other fluid.

When was the last time someone touched his bare flesh, besides his prick? Others in a similar position may derive _some_ tortured pleasure from any skin upon skin, from even the air’s caress. Feducci’s senses are numbed. Your hands roam his body, hesitant at first, building to a veritable conquest. Can he feel this? Can he feel _this?_ He can't see; he can barely breathe. The sweat must be uncomfortable. There might be tears in his eyes by now. And the one part of him that’s exposed, prominent and hypersensitive, ready and primed for touch - that’s the only part that you neglect.

Denial is intensified by dulled excess elsewhere. Again and again you drag him to the edge of orgasm and insanity, then reel him back with exquisite slowness. But he didn't get this far in his career without an adaptive nature. Eventually, his cries soften and regain a semblance of coherence; some of his tension drains, giving you a limper body to play with. That won't do. You straddle his thigh and grind your aching sex against the dense bandages there.

 _There_ you go. You bring yourself to another keening crisis: this one sparks colours dancing behind your eyelids, blooming like forgotten flowers, bright as entering death. His thrashes worsen as he swears in a language you don’t recognise. Soon you worry that he's going to spend from the combination of sensations and lack thereof - you quickly extricate yourself, ceasing all contact. Seconds later, Feducci yelps. A single bead of come oozes from his slit. By the sound and sight of it, it isn’t proper spending. You wait for several heartbeats, then lower your head with a dark chuckle, ghosting your tongue over his balls en route to lap up the slickness coating his shaft.

Infinity could pass with you none the wiser. You resume tormenting him with light touches on unremarkable locations, then incorporate random bursts of tugging or cupping his cock. It throbs mournfully. His wide range of reactions makes you wish you had implements at hand, like additional cloth; you're more than capable of improvisation, but that would mean pausing, which you cannot abide. Of course, you take great care to share all of these concerns with him. He clenches and unclenches and re-clenches his fists, oscillating between rage and resignation.

Finally, you allow yourself a moment to reacquaint yourself with your surroundings. Around the room, candles have melted considerably. How long has it been? Long enough, you gather.

Heart hammering, you free one of Feducci’s wrists. He tears off the cloth covering his eyes, and it’s a wonder that he doesn’t rip the other hand from its manacle when he grabs you. It requires creative manoeuvring, but you’re able to undo the other restraint as he humps nothing. You wrench yourself from his grip - no easy feat - and turn to free his ankles.

The air whooshes from your lungs as he flips you over. He hooks an ankle over his waist and drives into you, snarling; with the doubled vigour of the subsequent thrust, you’re largely indisposed for the next few seconds. His onslaught is gloriously artless, but not without technique. For your part, you do your best to lie back and look ravishing. Ravished. Whichever. You make an unfortunate joke about his famous lance, and his fucking takes a decidedly vengeful turn.

Your hands grapple uselessly for purchase around his shoulders. He lands a direct strike on a perfect spot within you, and your muscles flutter around his cock in anticipation - they clench when he lowers a hand, the texture of his bandages rough against flesh swollen with desire. His hips begin to stutter, and you smack his rear in warning. Not yet. Not yet. Anguished eyes demand an explanation. Well, the longer he can hold back, the stronger the release, yes?  

His hand speeds up. He utters your name, once, broken. You squirm and squeal, and - as you suddenly remember that the word _impaled_ exists - crisis slams into you with the clumsy force of an amateur duellist. It’s as thorough as a passionate professional. You _feel_ tight as you come. Feducci moans shakily and slows his thrusts - for your sake or his, you care not - deepening them to compensate. Teeth audibly gritted, he instructs you to consider your next actions carefully. You gnaw your lower lip and scan the faint outline of his face. Decisions, decisions.

Yanking the bandages at the top of his head, you hiss the typical lines of the soon-to-be-slain. _Finish me. End it._ Go on, _deal the death blow with that thick dripping lance._ He seizes from head to toe, spasms, and spends with an earsplitting cry. It lasts for what seems like a biological impossibility, his hot come flooding inside you; towards the end he pulls out and finishes himself with his hand, yours joining his as he shudders and groans through the final throes of blissful release as violent as routine.

Congratulations. Your sexual congress lasted longer than your battle in the Forgotten Quarter and ended with more screaming. The mattress’ comfort has multiplied tenfold in post-coital lassitude. You curl up in a foetal position. He collapses beside you, exhausted.

While you drift in and out of consciousness, Feducci rummages through the bedside table’s drawer and procures a deceptively benign-looking phial.

“And to think, it all began with this damned substance.” He holds it up, to better examine it with disdain. “Perhaps it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

The cork hasn’t even been properly replaced. Several droplets slide down the glass and land in heavy globs on his heaving chest. Unthinkingly, you lick them off.

Feducci’s head whips around. _“Did you just - ”_

Uh-oh.

**Author's Note:**

> i can't believe I broke a months-long FL silence with Feducci porn


End file.
